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Seeking latitude to press liberal causes, the Jewish Council for Public Affairs distances itself from federations
WASHINGTON (JTA) — The Jewish Council for Public Affairs, the onetime standard-bearer for outreach to the non-Jewish world whose influence has waned, is loosening its financial and organizational ties to the Jewish Federations of North America in a bid to reassert its traditional role.
The decision announced Monday to go it alone, announced in a press release and a two-page brochure that will go out to Jewish organizations, will free the JCPA to pursue liberal agenda items that are favored by American Jews but can alienate or unsettle donors to the federation system who are more conservative or at least more cautious about maintaining an appearance of being nonpartisan.
The decision marks a resolution to tensions that surged in 2020, when JCPA was among 600 Jewish groups to sign onto a full-page New York Times ad declaring “Black Lives Matter.” That set off alarms among some conservative donors because of the anti-Israel positions adopted by some of the Black Lives Matter movement’s leading individuals and organizations.
As a result, JCPA and JFNA entered into talks about their shared future. Insiders said last year, as tensions burst into public view, that it was likely that the ailing JCPA would fold wholly into JFNA.
Instead, after a process that included officials from both groups as well as from local Jewish community relations councils, which are mostly controlled by their local Jewish federations, the decision was to tease apart the organizations. The decision means that JCPA will no longer officially speak on behalf of the community relations councils, and also will not draw dues from them or from the 16 national organizations that have funded it up to now.
But while the group will take on a fundraising challenge, those who engineered the new structure say it will also be insulated from the difficulties of arriving at a consensus in an increasingly polarized political environment.
Rabbi Doug Kahn, the retired longtime director of the San Francisco Jewish Community Relations Council who was a consultant in the restructuring, said the new arrangement is meant to offer a positive answer to the question, “Can we move forward in a way that enables us to be more impactful on our core issues, and more nimble at the same time, while retaining close relationships with our key stakeholders going forward?”
Rori Pickler Neiss, who heads the St. Louis JCRC, was among a number of local community relations council directors who had lost hope that the JCPA could adequately represent them. Now she said, she was hopeful it could resume its role of convening a national Jewish consensus around critical issues.
“The model of consensus-building in the way that some of the mainstream organizations talk about it has really been consensus towards a very narrow group of voices that wants to claim representation of the entire Jewish community,” she said. The newly constituted JCPA “is opening itself up to what could be greater consensus in a sense of a much broader community than many of our models have allowed for.”
The brochure tied to the split indicates some of the issues on which the renewed JCPA will advocate. “JCPA will represent a strong independent voice within the American Jewish community on issues aimed at strengthening our democracy and commitment to an inclusive and just society out of the belief that such conditions are essential in a pluralistic society and for the well-being of the Jewish people and Israel,” it said. “The reset takes place against a backdrop of rising antisemitism, racism, bigotry and hate, and polarization, and continued threats to our democracy.”
The group is launching two new initiatives, both apparently likely to dismay conservatives. One would focus on “voting rights, election integrity, disinformation, extremism as a threat to democracy, and civics education.” The other would focus on “racial justice, criminal justice reform and gun violence, LGBTQ rights, immigration rights, reproductive rights, and fighting hate violence.”
Some of the 16 groups that have paid dues to the JCPA in the past are supporting the restructured group. The new JCPA will rely at first on a three-year commitment from the UJA Federation of New York, one of the biggest pillars of the JFNA.
It’s not clear yet how the more conservative among the 16 groups will react. Nathan Diament, the Washington director for the Orthodox Union, said his group would wait and see how the new JCPA develops. But he said he regretted the polarization that led to the change.
“The trajectory of that JCPA is a reflection of the of the broader trend, more than anything about the JCPA itself,” Diament said. “It’s harder to find consensus these days with regards to Israel, it’s harder to find consensus with regard to a large list of domestic policy matters. I mean, even while we were in the JCPA we were in the position of having to dissent on some prominent issues.”
David Bohm, the current JCPA chairman who led the restructuring talks, said the organization would remain nonpartisan — but acknowledged that it’s become harder to maintain the perception.
“In today’s polarized environment, people get accused of being partisan when they take a stand on any issue, so I don’t know if that can be totally avoided,” he said in an interview.
The JFNA in a statement welcomed the new configuration. “We look forward to continuing to work collaboratively with JCPA — as we always have — as it tackles issues of importance to Jewish communities in its new format.”
In an interview, Elana Broitman, JFNA’s senior vice president for public affairs, said the new configuration would allow the JCPA to delve deeper on its favored issues. “If the JCPA is focused on particular issues, they can perhaps go into more depth on those issues that they had the opportunity to before,” she said.
In the past, the JCPA has taken positions on issues like voting rights, gun control, immigration rights and abortion, because they were favored by the local JCRCs with which it consulted and which sent delegates to its annual conference. Those JCRCs often initiated liberal policies, in part because they were favored by an American Jewish grassroots that polls show trends overwhelmingly liberal.
Another factor was the give and take in local community relations: Jewish groups seeking support for Jewish issues from Black, Latino, Asian American and other minority groups were happy to reciprocate on those groups’ favored issues.
But the JCPA’s profile on those issues has diminished in recent years; the smaller donor base triggered by the 2008 recession forced the vast majority of JCRCs to fold into their local federations, and to reflect the priorities of the federation donor base as opposed to the congregations, Jewish labor groups and fraternal organizations that once drove the agenda for Jewish community relations.
Tensions between the JCPA and the JFNA intensified in the summer of 2020, after a Minneapolis policeman murdered George Floyd, triggering civil rights protests and the “Black Lives Matter” ad by Jewish groups that JCPA signed onto.
The JFNA CEO, Eric Fingerhut, insiders said then, was not happy about having to explain to donors why JCPA was embracing a group identified closely with a movement perceived by some conservatives as radical and anti-Israel.
The new JCPA is betting that there are donors ready to support a progressive domestic Jewish lobby. In addition to the three-year grant from UJA-Federation, two other grants will come from a past chairwoman of the JCPA, Lois Frank, and its current chairman, Bohm.
Bohm, an attorney who assumed leadership of the JCPA in 2021, said the group would take a hit by losing the JFNA’s allocations and the dues it collects from the 125 community relations councils — but he expected to make it up with money from foundations invested in the the JCPA’s new agenda, including from individual federations.
“We expect we may lose some funding,” he said. “We’re hoping it’s not significant.”
“We are beginning to hear from foundations that have not historically necessarily focused on community relations, but now recognize why that is such an important part in the toolkit,” Kahn added.
Bohm said the board would be independent and limited to 30 people. “We will continue to have board members who are either JCRC directors or current or past chairs of JCRCs, but they will not be representing their specific community,” he said in an email after the interview. “Instead they will represent the Jewish community relations field as a whole.”
JCPA’s annual budget is now less than $2 million, Kahn said, down from nearly $4 million in 2015, and its staff has dropped from 13 in the 2000s to four. The group is seeking a fifth staffer now and hope eventually to employ at least 13.
Beyond polarization, a number of factors have been at play in diminishing the role of consensus-based Jewish community relations. There has been a flourishing of single-issue nonprofit groups, many of them Jewish, that are more attractive to donors than general interest groups.
Kahn noted that in the mid-1990s when many of the agenda items the national Jewish community pursued for decades seemed to be resolving themselves: Peace was breaking out between Israel and its neighbors, the Soviet Union collapsed and freed its Jews to travel, immigration reform was on track and race relations appeared to be improving.
“There was this shift from focusing on the external challenges or threats to more of the internal threats within the Jewish community,” he said, referring to an emphasis on Jewish education to counter assimilation.
The fragility of the hopes for peace and democratic growth in the 1990s were made evident in subsequent years with the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks, the eruption of the Second Intifada and the rise of nativist sentiment and its attendant bigotries, culminating in the Trump presidency.
Kahn said his hope was that the JCPA would once again assume the role it played from 1944, when it was founded as the National Jewish Community Relations Advisory Council: raising Holocaust awareness and taking the lead in promoting immigration in the late 1940s, establishing the Black-Jewish alliance in the 1950s, defending Israel in the 1960s, and advocating for Soviet Jewry until the USSR’s collapse.
He saw hope in the turnout of non-Jewish support for Jews after the recent deadly attacks on Jewish institutions, including the gunman who massacred 11 worshipers in Pittsburgh in 2018. “I think this model will enable that kind of solidarity-building around issues of common cause to grow infinitely greater than it’s been able to, up until now,” he said.
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In the face of conflict over assimilation, appropriation, colonialism and hegemony, a plea for human dignity through dance
Some movies cut so close to home that they make it impossible to have an objective response. When I was watching Tatyana Tenenbaum’s debut feature documentary Everything You Have Is Yours, the moment of truth hit about halfway through.
The film’s protagonist, dancer and choreographer Hadar Ahuvia, is rehearsing in an empty studio, talking about doing her homework at the Jewish Community Center in Hawaii as a child, while her mother taught Israeli folk dance classes in another room. She’d only stop when she heard a favorite song.
“I’d rush out,” Ahuvia says in voiceover “to join a dance or two with women my mother’s age, tucking into their palms for ‘Mah Navu.”
I leaped up because I suddenly remembered dancing with my own Israeli mother, at a New Jersey JCC in the 80s, my small hand tucked into her palm, as we moved softly in a circle with American Jews, to the opening notes of “Mah Navu.” My middle-aged legs were convinced that they still knew what to do. They didn’t, and I slammed into the coffee table, leaving angry bruises on both shins that still refuse to heal.
It’s a little on-the-nose, but so is life:
Like Ahuvia, I’m the daughter of kibbutzniks who moved to the U.S. and raised me here, and I loved the old dances. Like Ahuvia, I knew very little then about the history of how they’d come into being. I only knew they belonged to us, just as Israel belonged to us. And like Ahuvia, I come from a family full of conflict over the war. We throw words at each other: genocide, terrorists, resistance, safety, peace, justice. We wield facts and figures as weapons, we challenge each other’s sources. We demand empathy while offering none; we yell, we sulk, we storm out of group chats, and then collapse into that most un-Jewish of compromises: silences that sometimes last weeks. And this is just with my parents. Don’t even get me started on the uncles.
Despite all our best and worst efforts, we never change each other’s minds.
But perhaps that’s the trouble. And part of what makes Everything You Have is Yours such a necessary offering. Tatyana Tenenbaum and Hadar Ahuvia, both of them dance artists, are interested in the body, not the mind. Over the course of seven years, Tenenbaum films Ahuvia’s trips from New York to Poland to Palestine and to her mother’s kibbutz in Israel — everywhere that Ahuvia can, in her own words, “exercise my freedom of movement,” in pursuit of her troubled, troubling lineage.
Tenenbaum’s camera dances with Ahuvia as she wrestles with the folk traditions on which she was raised. The film’s title is taken from one of Ahuvia’s own works in which she and her collaborators demonstrate and re-enact the ways in which early Israeli folk dances appropriated, assimilated, and finally claimed ownership of Palestinian and Jewish Arab traditions.
Everything You Have Is Yours is not a screed or polemic but rather a gorgeous, engrossing portrait of committed dancers — Israeli, Ashkenazi, Sephardi, Mizrahi, American and Palestinian — as they, like Ahuvia, claim their own “freedom of movement” within the shackles that bind past and present. And while Ahuvia’s performances draw from her specific identity and heritage — as her collaborators draw from theirs — her questions are universal: How does history live in our bones? What do we lose, and what do we gain, when we challenge the myths of our childhood? How do we carry the violence inflicted on us and the violence we inflict on others? And where do we go from here?
Ahuvia and Tenenbaum talked to me over Zoom about the film’s long journey to the screen, the impact of the past two years on their relationships and work, and why such a critically well-received project has yet to find a distributor.
I told them I’d connected with the film. I didn’t tell them it was the first movie I’ve seen about Israel that I could imagine watching with my own mother, across our differences, my palm tucked once more in hers.
When I first reached out to you for this interview, Tatyana, you expressed a very strong conviction that you and Hadar needed to be in the conversation together.
Tatyana Tenenbaum: Hadar and I are both dance artists, and that’s how we met, so the movie grew out of a horizontal friendship. Before I proposed to Hadar that we document her process, we had already worked together as performers.
Also, the themes we’ve explored are related: I’m not Israeli, but I do have Ashkenazi Jewish lineage, so for me this project was also a reflection of what it means as an American to have assimilated into a national project and into empire.
You shot and edited over seven years. What kinds of conversations did you need to have as you were working out accountability over the long haul, both to each other and to the other dancers on camera?
TT: So many! I’m a process-based artist and I had never made a film before, and at first I thought it would just be a 10-minute short. And then 15, and then 20, and it kept evolving. Hadar and I had a lot of catch-up work to do around consent. This is personal work and her relationships with her family are very tender. Ultimately the process mattered, not only because of the political ideas Hadar is grappling with and her beautiful artistry, but also her vulnerability.
Was it a shared editing process?
Hadar Ahuvia: No, I am really glad this is Tatyana’s film. I don’t think it would be an interesting thing to see a documentary that I made about myself.
The film has been very well received by audiences and critics, but there has been some struggle getting distribution and getting it shown, particularly by Jewish festivals. What do you think is happening there?
TT: Our struggles with distribution aren’t unique. Films that are critical of Zionism are not films that distributors want to take a risk on. There are exceptions: The Jewish Film Institute, for example, presented the movie in San Francisco for Winterfest, and they made a beautiful panel as the centerpiece of the weekend about it, which was lovely.
Because we were on their roster, all the Jewish festivals then solicited the film. But none of them programmed it. I think it’s worth saying, and worth naming that. It’s a missed opportunity.
HA: And we invite them to reconsider.
While the film has a point of view, it also features Israeli and American dancers rehearsing and performing together while navigating political disagreement. That diversity of thought feels both satisfying and precarious. How have the past two years of fracture, both between and amongst Israeli and American Jews, impacted these dancers and your relationships with them?
TT: It’s been hard. But we’re still in relationship with everyone in the film.
HA: We knew right from the start that we didn’t all sit in the same place politically. Even if we disagree about the exact makeup of what political futures should look like, we believe in the humanity and dignity of all people. And I think that continues to be true for everybody who participated, which enables us to continue to be in relationship.
On the other hand, while the Palestinian-Americans in Freedom Dabka Group are featured prominently, they only appear in parallel. There’s never an intersection, or a moment of seeing the two sets of dancers come together.
HA: It would have been superficial to try to invite Palestinians into my work. That wouldn’t change the power dynamics of it still being my work, and my authorship. Also, the politics in the real world are such that this kind of collaboration in my work about Israeli dance didn’t feel possible. It would have been superficial for me to rush to solutions.
I even thought about putting videos of Palestinians in different pieces, and that didn’t feel right either, because it wouldn’t give them the agency of representing themselves. And so what I decided to do instead was to “notice the absence.” The absence of relationship with Palestinians comes from the way that apartheid in the State is actualized in my body.
There’s a particularly arresting scene featuring Hadar’s on-stage breakdown of how early Israeli folk dances altered and absorbed Yemeni Jewish steps, and how this represents a “de-Arabization” of the form. Then there is a similar process through which Palestinian dabka becomes Israeli debka. When asked about it on camera, Amer Abdelrasoul of the Freedom Dabka Group says “I don’t know about Israeli Debka, and I don’t wanna see it. Because I’m gonna get pissed.”
TT: Amer didn’t explicitly know about those Israeli dances. At the same time, he wasn’t surprised about them, because they reminded him of other cultural appropriations. That moment creates a visceral response in audiences, but I thought it was a great answer: direct, clear and honest.
I can imagine a critique from the left that within the context of what Palestinians are currently experiencing in Gaza, the occupied territories and elsewhere, art that focuses on Israeli perspectives — even critically — might be problematic. How would you respond to that?
HA: I think it’s important for us to do this work, so that Palestinians don’t have to. As Jews, it’s our responsibility to speak to our people.
How would you respond to the other side, to those who might feel that the critiques embedded in this film harm Jewish safety, and delegitimize Israeli experience?
HA: We really center Israelis. We humanize Israelis and show our diversity. And that itself could actually be critiqued from the Left. But from the Right, what I’ve heard most is, well, cultural exchange is good, isn’t it? Even some of the dancers you see in the movies disagree with my critique of the cultural appropriation in these dances.
I think that cultural exchange is great too. But, again, this is about power dynamics. For example when I see Christian Zionists appropriating Jewish culture — as we see them do with my mother’s dancing in the film’s archival footage — it makes the dangers really clear to me.
TT: The largest Zionist voting bloc in the U.S. are evangelical Christian Zionists. It’s a fact that is often obscured politically, and I actually learned it from Hadar. We hope that the film also gives audiences a tangible experience with the way that, under Christian hegemony, there are people claiming to support us but who do not actually care about Jews.
When you ask the dancer and choreographer Ze’eva Cohen about her identity, she says that the answer to the question of where you come from lies not in your citizenship but in your heritage. What heritages do you invoke in this film?
TT: I am going to say… Somatic abolitionism.
HA: And especially the work of Resmaa Menakem.
I was expecting the answer to be Poland, or Eastern Europe.
TT: Hadar and I share an education in postmodern dance, and we share the idea of being with the body on the level of sensation and function and integration. This is where Menakem has been so important for our dance field. The need for reintegration only emerges because of colonialism. Without colonialism, we wouldn’t need to reintegrate: Our bodies would just be there.
This brings us back to Ze’eva Cohen saying that in Yemeni Jewish culture “if you didn’t dance, if you didn’t sing…you didn’t believe in God, unless it was embodied.”
HA: Dance continues to be a way that I process grief and anger. I’ve been researching Ashkenazi culture, and especially Ashkenazi vernacular and cantorial music, reclaiming this long chain of transmission.
As I’ve been dancing, I’ve been active with Rabbis for Ceasefire, and I’m also in rabbinical school. So, davening and prayer has been another way that I feel I stay connected to being Jewish — to being deeply rooted, while also holding what’s happening in the world, and ultimately being able to envision what else is possible.
Mor Mandel, an Israeli collaborator and dancer featured in the film, says of leaving Israel: “I left the ship sinking, but I still dream in Hebrew.” Hadar, are you still able to dance in Hebrew?
HA: In my research around Yiddish dance, I’ve discovered that there exists a beautiful sense of pride in each dance. I’ve reconnected to Jewish strength through that posture rather than through Zionism. So no, I no longer dance Israeli folk dance for fun.
Except that it felt meaningful to me at my wedding to do “El Ginat Egoz,” a dance by Sarah Levi Tanai, with my mom. It felt like a gesture that acknowledges our shared language. Context matters, right? So I don’t do these dances on the fields of the kibbutz, but it felt right to me to do them at my wedding, with my mom. It felt good to acknowledge this particular dance that…
TT: …that she loves.
HA: Yes, exactly. That she loves.
Everything You Have Is Yours screens on March 5 and 8 at the Laemmle Theater in Los Angeles. Information on further screenings is available on the film’s website.
The post In the face of conflict over assimilation, appropriation, colonialism and hegemony, a plea for human dignity through dance appeared first on The Forward.
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Britain Sends Destroyer and Helicopters With Counter-Drone Tech to Cyprus
Entrance to the RAF Akrotiri, a British sovereign base in Cyprus, which was hit by an unmanned drone overnight, causing limited damage, after sirens sounded, in Cyprus, March 2, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Yiannis Kourtoglou
Britain is deploying HMS Dragon, an air defense destroyer, to Cyprus after the runway of its Akrotiri base there was hit by an Iranian-made drone.
Prime Minister Keir Starmer said on Tuesday he was sending the naval vessel along with helicopters with counter–drone capabilities to the region, as the conflict in the Middle East intensifies.
France and Greece said they would also send anti-missile and anti-drone systems after the British base on the island was hit on Monday.
“The UK is fully committed to the security of Cyprus and British military personnel based there,” Starmer said in a post on X, adding that he had spoken with Cypriot President Nikos Christodoulides about the move.
“We’re continuing our defensive operations and I’ve just spoken with the President of Cyprus to let him know that we are sending helicopters with counter drone capabilities and HMS Dragon is to be deployed to the region,” the British prime minister said.
HMS Dragon is a Type 45 air-defense destroyer equipped with the Sea Viper missile system and advanced radar designed to track and neutralize airborne threats, according to the Royal Navy’s website.
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Trump Awards Medal of Honor to ‘Righteous Among the Nations’ World War II Soldier With ‘Unsurpassed Courage’
US President Donald Trump speaks during a visit at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, US, Feb. 13, 2026. Photo: REUTERS/Elizabeth Frantz
President Donald Trump bestowed the Medal of Honor to three former US Army soldiers on Monday at a White House ceremony and they included a World War II veteran who was recognized by Yad Vashem as “Righteous Among the Nations.”
Trump posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor to Master Sgt. Roderick (Roddie) W. Edmonds, who refused to single out the Jewish servicemen he fought alongside when he was held by Germans in a prisoner-of-war (POW) camp during World War II. The president said the three US soldiers receiving the Medal of Honor — only one of whom is still living – demonstrated “unsurpassed courage.”
In 1941, Edmonds enlisted in the US Army and soon became one of the youngest master sergeants in the military, Trump said. The native of South Knoxville, Tennessee, led a unit that fought in Europe during World War II and they were captured by German forces on Dec. 19, 1944. Edmonds was held with other American POWS, including Jews, at Stalag IX-B in Bad Orb, Germany. Germans tried to separate Jewish POWs and many of them were sent to Nazi extermination camps or killed. Edmonds was in charge of the American barracks in Stalag IXA, according to the US Army, but refused to help single out Jewish POWs.
“On July 26, 1945, a Nazi SS officer issued an order over the camp loudspeaker, loud and strong, he said that only American Jews were to show up to roll call. Following this morning, he added ‘all who disobey this order will be shot immediately,’” Trump explained at the Medal of Honor ceremony. “There were more than 200 Jewish American soldiers in the camp, and Roddie knew their separation from the group would mean certain death. So that night he summoned his team and devised a plan. The next morning, all 1,200 American men fell in line together, shoulder to shoulder.”
“Enraged, the Nazi commandant rushed forward, drew his Luger pistol, and pressed the barrel between Sgt. Edmond’s eyes,” the president added. “He barked at Roddie, ‘They cannot all be Jews!’ He screamed loud and again and again. And, staring straight back into the raging face of evil, Sgt. Edmonds replied fearlessly, ‘We are all Jews here.’ The Nazi officer lowered his weapon and the soldiers erupted in cheers.”
The president noted that “with total disregard for his own life, Roddie had saved over 200 of his fellow service members.” Stalag IXA was liberated two months later.
Edmonds died on Aug. 8, 1985, in Knoxville. His son, Chris, accepted his Medal of Honor on Monday at the White House ceremony. Trump also posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor to Staff Sgt. Michael H. Ollis and Command Sergeant Major Terry P. Richardson.
Yad Vashem recognized Edmonds as Righteous Among the Nations in 2015. A year later, a ceremony was held at the Israeli embassy in Washington, DC, and the Righteous medal and certificate of honor was presented to Edmond’s son.